A Bloody Smell

Our cat falls into an unexpected, heavy heat. Only four months old and already her biology motions her into a grown cat. A quick glance shows off the features of a small boned feline: gray fur, liquid eyes. The house smells of her coquettish longing. A bloody smell. The down stair rooms feel thick with fertility. The vet wants us to wait one more month before spading her. We will have to wait for one more session of her prancing in the hallways, gesturing rudely. Suggestive waves from her tail curling, flickering, s-shaped.

•89/ In the mornings he finds himself repainting the downstairs rooms with a light coffee color, a tone of light in shadow— or a shadow in light, he cannot decide. Light of midday sends its squares of light across the walls, changing the tone of the rooms at random. Shifting moods. The light gathers in flocks, clusters of goats wandering the hallways as Pan seals up his paints, washing off his brushes, one by one.•